AFTER I HAD COMPLETED my work in the Wallingford
High School, I felt prepared in mind for further adventures in the
educational field. Grandfather was sympathetic with my ambitions and very
willing to back them up with financial assistance. How he ever managed to
see enough in me to justify his confidence and support, I cannot imagine;
it seems to me as I look back that there was little to justify it.
I think that Mr. Jerome Hilliard, or almost any
other respectable and unprejudiced citizen of Wallingford, would have been
willing to enlighten grandfather on the subject if grandfather had sought
advice but he did not seek advice. The good folks of Wallingford might
believe that grandfather was betting his money on the wrong horse if they
chose to do so; that was their privilege; he had ideas of his own on that
subject and he was willing to back his judgment with cold cash.
Grandfather had a profound faith in education, and
the least and perhaps the most, that could be said in my favor, was that I
possessed an inquiring mind.
Of one thing I am sure, deep down in my heart, I
treasured an abiding love for grandfather; perhaps he suspected that much.
My multitudinous misdemeanors notwithstanding, I never knew grandfather to
show signs of annoyance when I threw myself into his lap and caressed him
as he sat sobbing beside the sitting-room stove. I am sure he knew I
sympathized with him in his grievous troubles.
The faith of my grandparents was put to even more
severe tests during the years which followed. My records in Black River
Academy, Vermont Military Academy, the Universities of Vermont and
Princeton, left much to be desired. The time-honored curricula of the
period had little meaning for me. Literature, philosophy, history, the
humanities and social sciences would, I am convinced, have meant much. As
things were, I gained most from extra-curricular activities especially
those spiced with insubordinations and outlawry.
There were also certain personalities among the
educators with whom I came in contact, that left their profound
impressions on my mind; Major Spooner at Vermont Military Academy;
Professor Petty (dear old "Pet!"), at the University of Vermont, and above
all, Doctor James McCosh, who was President of Princeton several years
prior to the incumbency of Woodrow Wilson. I was privileged to take logic
and psychology under this famous educator from the Universities of
Edinburgh, Glasgow and Belfast. "Jimmie" was loved by everyone, and more
than that, I always thought he looked and acted like grandfather. From his
habit of poring over books he was even more bent than grandfather but he
had the same type of aquiline nose and his hair was silvery white.
On my first day in Princeton, I was taken to the
home of the venerable president by Professor Huss who introduced me.
President McCosh did not rise from his chair but he extended his hand to
me, at the same time inquiring, "And did ye come here to have a good
time?" Somewhat embarrassed by the question, I still had enough wits about
me to answer, "No, President McCosh, I came here to study." He pressed my
hand quite firmly and said, "Ah, that's right, me By."
One cold winter day while at Princeton, I received
a telegram from Uncle George, reading, "Come home at once if you want to
see grandpa alive." I knew Uncle George well enough to know that every
word of his sad message was justified and I took the first train to New
York and there transferred to a train leaving for the north country.
A cold, dreary landscape confronted us as our
train made its way up our valley and a funeral procession made my
forebodings more acute. It was coming on night as my train arrived at
Wallingford. Only one person stood on the platform, a boy named Preston.
To him I went in haste as I propounded the burning question, "Do you know
how my grandfather is, Bert?" He stammered a bit as he spoke the words, "I
am afraid your grandfather is dead, Paul."
Most of the story of grandfather's illness and
death was told me by grandmother and others who were present. I know that
it is true because it could not have been untrue. If you know folks well
enough, you will know what they will do under certain circumstances.
That winter had been the hardest on record
throughout the north and east and the record has never been equaled since.
In New York City, the North River froze over completely and many
courageous New Yorkers fought their way across in order to be able to say
they had done so. Snow piled up as high as the eaves troughs and traffic
was stopped on the railroads for several days. Folks who had failed to
stock up on foodstuffs had to go hungry but there was no shortage of food
in grandfather's house. Whittier's "Snow Bound" was outdone entirely and
those who had thought of that masterpiece as a fanciful exaggeration had
to make new reckonings. Grandfather certainly worked hard that year to
keep the path to the front gate and the brick sidewalk in front of the
house clear of snow but it was a losing game, as none knew better than
grandfather. Snowstorms were always a challenge to him; there must have
been a sporting element in his nature and he permitted none of his
neighbors to get the better of him. Long before daylight while most of the
folks of our village, both old and young, were still in bed, thinking of
the tasks before them, grandfather's snow shovel could be heard scraping
the snow from the walks.
There were times when grandmother viewed
grandfather's determination to keep up his outdoor work through the storm
and blizzard with considerable apprehension but he waived all protests
aside in a manner well understood by grandmother. The best that she could
do was to make sure he was well wrapped up to guard against the pelting
snow or sleet and then to let grandfather have his own way about it.
Occasionally grandmother would go into the cold, south parlor and peer
through any break she could find in the coating of ice on the window to
see how grandfather was getting along.
Once in my memory grandmother spoke to Uncle
George about it; he listened to her patiently until she had finished and
then remarked, "Pa's snow shovel is about the only medicine he takes,
isn't it, Ma?" to which she replied, "Yes, I suppose so." and grandfather
was left to prescribe for himself come weal, come woe. Whether his days
would have been more or fewer had he been content to sit behind the
sitting-room stove when the furies of the northern winters raged, no one,
not even Uncle George, wise, kind doctor as he was, could have told.
In the days before I left home nothing could have
given me more exhilaration, more real pleasure, nor have been better for
me than a bout with the snow-drifts after my return from my before
daylight journey to the post-office, or even before I took that journey.
Most naturally I did not fuss with grandfather for the privilege of
shoveling the snow. I knew, intuitively, as Doctor George knew, and in
fact as grandmother deep down in her heart knew, that grandfather never
could have enjoyed his cat naps in his big arm chair as he did without
first having done his morning chores.
He had given up his horses, cows, and the heaviest
of his labors in the garden, the hayfield and the barn, but his household
chores he would yield to neither man nor boy.
Grandfather did not say these things; it was not
his custom to talk such things over; it was not necessary to do so. When
he pulled on his boots, tucked his trousers into them, put his mittens on
his hands, his wristlets on his wrists, his tippet around his neck and
went to the woodshed for the snow shovel, one could readily understand
that the snow was to be shoveled and that grandfather was the man to
shovel it.
Grandfather's snow shovel was a sort of symbol to
me; a symbol of courage and resolution. If our family ever adopts a coat
of arms, it should be a snow shovel-but not a snow shovel couchant for
grandfather never permitted his snow shovel to lie down on him, but a snow
shovel rampant, ever ready to do its part.
Upon arriving home I learned that one morning
after grandfather's return to the house, a severe cold seemed to have
gotten the best of him, growing steadily worse as the day advanced. He
went to bed at the usual time and slept through the night but, contrary to
his custom, he did not wake up at the usual hour and grandmother noted
that he was breathing heavily. For the first time in more than sixty years
of married life, grandmother got up, lit the light and called the hired
girl who started the fire in the kitchen stove, shook the coal stove down
and cleared out the clinkers.
Grandfather continued to sleep and grandmother's
anxiety continued to grow until she could bear it no longer. As soon as
daylight came she sent a telegram to Uncle George who, upon receiving it,
harnessed one of the horses and set out through the deep snow for
Wallingford.
Both Billy and Fanny had a way of reading Uncle
George's mind and they could tell from his manner whether or not it was an
emergency; they were angels of mercy at such times. Considering what had
to be encountered, Uncle George made his appearance in our yard in a brief
period of time. Stepping into the house where, after removing his great
overcoat and the arctics from his shoes and exchanging a word of greeting
with grandmother, he went directly to grandfather's bedside and examined
him anxiously.
After a brief pause, he turned to grandmother and
said, "Pa has a touch of pneumonia but I have hopes that his rugged
constitution will pull him through; we shall see; the crisis will probably
come tonight."
Aunt Lib dropped in during the course of the
forenoon, Uncle George having called at the Martindale home returning to
Rutland. Owing to the fact that no path had been shoveled between the back
doors of the two houses, Aunt Lib had come to the front door which was
unusual for her. Ellen Button managed to make her way to the side door
during the day and Justin Batcheller and other near neighbors who had seen
Uncle George's cutter in our yard came to make inquiry. All were extremely
solicitous and spoke in low tones; there was no comment on the doings of
the villagers as was customary during neighborly calls. They looked solemn
but very kindly as though they were all of one family sharing
grandmother's anxiety. All near neighbors called during the course of the
day. Ellen Button, who had recently buried her father, the good old Judge,
called several times bringing such things as she thought might be
acceptable and she spoke soft, tender words of consolation to grandmother.
Later in the day Uncle George came again from
Rutland bringing Aunt Mellie and after he had looked at grandfather again,
they all took chairs in the dining-room and talked in low voices. They had
never seen Uncle George in just the mood of that moment; he was even more
sympathetic than usual but there was a serious look in his kind blue eyes.
Later in the day he sent telegrams to father and
mother and all other near relatives. Father and mother came as soon as
they could get through. It was a blessed thing to have relatives and good
neighbors at hand; I do not know how grandmother could have gotten along
without their sympathy and counsel. As it was, she did wondrously well
considering the fact that during a period of sixty years she and
grandfather had been one and inseparable; not a thought had she failed to
share with him.
Grandfather's breathing was less labored but
fainter and Uncle George held out no hope. The passing was not long in
coming. He never regained consciousness; his tired old heart simply ceased
to beat. A good husband, father and grandfather and a true New England
citizen had gone.
An undertaker from Rutland removed the body to the
north parlor, a room never opened but once before during the days of my
boyhood. There grandfather rested when I arrived. The room seemed icy cold
as indeed it was until near the hour of the funeral when the coal stove in
the sitting room and the soapstone stove in the south parlor and the
kitchen stove were all driven to the limit of their capacity in order to
keep their respective quarters warm and to send their combined surplus
heat into the north parlor which had no stove of its own.
Although grandmother had never been what one would
call a managing person, she arose to the emergency and did her full part.
Her desires in all matters were respected and followed to the letter.
The funeral services were simple. There were no
flowers other than the potted geraniums always kept in the kitchen and
dining room windows. Standing in the front hallway between the two
parlors, the minister spoke appropriately of the life of grandfather and
the Congregational church choir of three singers, Harlan Strong, tenor,
Cal Hilliard, soprano and her widowed sister, Mellie Cleghorn, contralto,
sang, without accompaniment, "Lead, Kindly Light" and other familiar hymns
as they had done scores of times before.
Though two of her children and many of her
grandchildren were present, it was grandmother's wish that I sit by her
side in the back seat of the first sleigh as we drove to the cemetery and
to lean upon my arm as we made our way along the path which the sexton had
shoveled through the snow to our family lot where the grave had been dug
deep down to a point below the frost line.
The family lot was enclosed by a cast-iron fence,
the name, "Howard Harris" being wrought in the gate. Grandmother held up
wonderfully well at the grave and upon our return home, and in fact, at
all times during the ordeal.
I think it was upon the suggestion of my mother
that it was decided to have grandfather's will read while the relatives
were present and I was the one selected to read it.
The will provided that the estate was to be
divided into three parts; one-third to Aunt Mellie outright; one-third to
Uncle George in trust, father to have the income throughout his life; and
the remaining third to grandmother to dispose of as she pleased including
any provision she might wish to make for the continuation of my education.
The will was something of a surprise to neighbors
who had thought that grandfather would put me on an equal basis with Aunt
Mellie and my father but the only dissatisfied legatee was my father who
chaffed at the trusteeship, contending that it was not necessary for
anyone to exercise lordship over him in his own affairs and that went for
Uncle George in particular. Uncle George was not happy over the
arrangement but resolved to carry on as long as he could endure it, which
proved not to be long. Years later, Uncle George, in an effort to defend
himself against charges made by my father, showed me his book of accounts
and wanted to explain its entries. I merely said, "Close your book, Uncle
George. No explanations are needed." One of the most honorable and
conscientious men I have ever known was my Uncle George.
The humiliation of being singled out as an incompetent hurt father grievously.
Grandfather had sensed it all and that was why he sobbed as he sat in his
arm chair beside the sitting room stove during the latter part of his
life.
